A Most Embarrassing Ailment
by LadyWallace
Summary: It might be natural, but it is embarrassing. Aziraphale finds himself a little under the weather but luckily he has an, albeit reluctant, caretaker to see him through. Hurt/Comfort, no slash


**Here's a little fluff for you guys after the angstiness of "Crossfire" XD I hope you enjoy! **

A Most Embarrassing Ailment

A Good Omens Fanfic

Crowley strode down the street, hands in his pockets, feeling all in all rather good about himself that day. He'd just held up the Tube again, which was always a very fast and easy way to create chaos in London, and a lot of anger, which in turn produced a slow roll of evil that trickled down quite ingeniously if he did say so himself. Thus, leaving him with hundreds, if not thousands of slowly corrupting souls with one fell swoop and extra time on his hands.

So he decided he would stop in and see Aziraphale. It had been a while since he'd had a chat with the angel, and he was sure to want to drag Crowley to some new restaurant or other, forcing him to enjoy the food there. Which was fine; Crowley might have found it slightly dull and he didn't really care for gourmet food, but it sure beat Hell and Hell's company.

However, when he got to the bookshop, he thought the angel might be out. The sign on the door was turned to 'CLOSED' and the blinds had been drawn. Of course, Crowley thought with a snort, that could also mean nothing more than that the angel simply had his nose buried in some book and had forgotten to even open the shop that day. He'd been known to lose himself for days if not weeks in research. Crowley was probably doing him a favor by showing up. And if he was out, Crowley didn't think the angel would mind if he let himself in to wait for his return.

He snapped his fingers to unlock the door and strode inside, frowning at the dim light and the dust floating around.

No, not dust, he realized suddenly as he slid his glasses down his nose to better see. _Feathers._

Plumy feathers—down, coverts, and the like—were floating lazily around the shop, stirred by the breeze from Crowley opening the door. He spun around, watching as they floated past the bookshelves, landing on tables, and piles of books. Skittering across the floor and Crowley's feet. Some even landed in his hair and he shook them off as sudden worry began to gnaw at him.

"Angel?" he called, striding through the sea of feathers toward the back room, suddenly cautious.

A horrible sound came from that direction and sent Crowley running, snatching a substantial candlestick as he did so. If someone had hurt his friend he would…

But as he burst into the back room, he only found Aziraphale. A miserable hunched figure on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, feet tucked into a basin of steaming water, and a cup of tea clutched in his hands like some kind of lifeline.

Aziraphale's wings were visible, tucked to either side of him and looking quite bad, just as bad as the angel they belonged to.

Aziraphale looked up, eyes and nose bright red. "Oh, Crowley, I…ah-ah-CHOO!"

That same horrible sound Crowley had heard before escaped Aziraphale—a _sneeze!—_and feathers flew from his wings in a dramatic plume as he grabbed a handkerchief and blew his nose loudly.

Crowley suddenly retreated, pressing his back against the wall as he yanked his coat over his face, brandishing the candlestick, but this time at the friend he had been planning to defend with it. "You're _sick!" _he accused as if it were some terrible crime.

"Yes," Aziraphale said, miserable, sniffling.

"Do you have the plague?" Crowley demanded. He didn't think angels or, more importantly, demons, could get the plague, but there was a first time for everything, and Aziraphale was most definitely sick, and if _he_ was sick with something it only stood to reason that _Crowley_ could catch it too. Unless it was an exclusively angelic disease.

"No," Aziraphale said with some exasperation. "It's…it's a most embarrassing ailment."

Crowley cocked his head to one side, still keeping his distance. Embarrassing? "Eh?" he inquired.

Aziraphale blew his nose again and huffed. "I'm molting!"

Ah, well, that would certainly explain the feathers. "Molting?! But why all the sneezing and the…the _egh_?" Crowley demanded, waving his candlestick to vaguely encompass all of Aziraphale and everything that he had going on. "Well, that's not really that embarrassing, is it? I mean, all angels do it, I do it, every bloody bird does it!"

"Yes, but the feathers!" Aziraphale moaned, motioning vaguely. "And the itching! I'm going mad with it!" To emphasize, he twisted to reach his wings, scratching at one and sending up yet another plume of feathers and down. "Not to mention this cold I've contracted because of it!"

Crowley just stood by and watched, not really knowing what to do. The candlestick was still held out in front of him as if he, of all people, were trying to ward off evil, though he knew it wouldn't do anything.

The angel let out yet another sigh of exasperation and went to put his cup down only to have it tip over and spill across the table in front of him. "Oh…_bugger!_ Crowley would you stop waving that ridiculous thing around and get a towel?"

Crowley finally lowered the candlestick, suddenly feeling a little bad about his reaction, and yet…

Well, he supposed that if the sick was a result of the molting, then perhaps it wasn't contagious? Not that he really wanted to test that theory, but at the very least he supposed he could offer his friend some assistance.

So he set the candlestick aside and hurried into the kitchenette to grab a towel. He still held his breath as he approached the sick angel, but he mopped up the spilled tea and picked up the cup.

"Thank you," Aziraphale said, sounding congested, then before Crowley could retreat out of range again, he let out another explosive sneeze, barely covering his mouth with his handkerchief.

"Watch it!" Crowley cried as he jerked away, snatching his coat over his face again.

"Sorry," Aziraphale said as more feathers settled onto the floor, furniture, and really every fixture in the room. One even landed in the empty teacup Crowley was still holding. The angel shifted uncomfortably, and reached back to dig his fingers into one of his wings again, scratching violently.

"If this blasted cold wasn't bad enough these have to itch so bloody bad!" he complained and sneezed again.

Crowley began wishing he had never decided to stop by today.

And yet, obviously he too knew how annoying molting could be. Your wings itched terribly, the feathers fell out, making flying next to impossible, not to mention the fact that they _looked_ terrible—which he was sure was a huge embarrassment to Aziraphale. Then the new feathers all had to come in which ached something terrible and then itched again. It was, over all, a horrible process, and though Crowley had never actually gotten sick during a molt, he knew it wasn't something that _never_ happened. And he had always felt a little under the weather himself, mostly holing up until it stopped, trying to make himself as comfortable as possible.

It was then he resigned himself with a deep sigh, knowing that he couldn't very well leave his friend in his current state. He may be a demon but he wasn't totally heartless.

"Fine," Crowley growled, folding his arms across his chest. "What can I do for you?"

Aziraphale frowned, glancing up at him. "I'm sorry?"

Crowley rolled his eyes. "I'm offering to help take care of you, you idiot. One time only, and at a huge risk to my health, too! So, what do you need?"

Aziraphale looked both confused and slightly touched, but he sniffed and cleared his throat, dabbing at his extremely red nose with his handkerchief. "Well, I could use a bowl of steaming water with some aromatics to breathe in. I think that would help my sinuses a bit."

"Aromatics?" Crowley frowned.

"Peppermint will do," Aziraphale told him. "There should be some in the kitchen."

Crowley took that as a cue to leave and retreated gladly into the kitchenette. Even that room had not been spared from the invasion of the feathers. Crowley thought that Aziraphale was going to have a lot of cleaning to do once his molt was over. Though at least he would be able to make a new feather duster, the demon thought with a smirk at his joke.

He put the kettle on and looked for the peppermint, finding a small bottle of oil. He took that out, found a bowl, and waited until the water heated sufficiently before he brought all of the things out to Aziraphale.

He set the bowl down on the table and poured the water in then put several drops of the peppermint in the water. It was potent enough to make Crowley's eyes water, so he hoped it would do the trick.

"Thank you, dear," Aziraphale said, getting up, stepping out of the basin of now cold water he'd had his feet in. He nearly unbalanced because of his wings, and Crowley instinctively caught his elbow, keeping him from falling. Aziraphale righted himself, tucked his ragged wings in against his back, and left wet footprints all the way to the table where he sat and leaned over the bowl of steaming water, pulling his blanket over both himself and the bowl to make a tent.

Crowley watched him for a few seconds. "How is it?" he asked.

"Oh, fine," Aziraphale said, still sniffing, his voice muffled under the blanket. "I think it's helping."

Crowley shrugged, and then turned to pick up the basin Aziraphale had been soaking his feet in, taking it to the sink to dump it out. He wasn't sure if the angel would want it refilled or not—truthfully he didn't even understand what it was for in the first place—but he figured he would wait until Aziraphale requested it.

He was pretty certain the angel would want more tea though. That was always a given. So he put the kettle on again and boiled water, then took down the tea pot and found honey and lemon—which he understood were good for colds, at least by human standards—and put that to the side so Aziraphale could choose what he would like.

When he got back out, Aziraphale was still inside his steamy tent, but he stirred when Crowley put the tray down on the table beside him.

"I brought tea," he said. "Honey and lemon?"

Aziraphale stirred and straightened up, pulling the blanket back to make a hood around his face. His face was entirely pink, poached thoroughly from the steam, but he did seem to be breathing better so maybe there was something to it. "Oh, thank you, dear, that's very kind."

"Ngh," Crowley mumbled with a self-conscious shrug. "'S'long as you stop sneezing everywhere, I'll do anything."

Aziraphale started to pour himself a cup of tea and added both the honey and the lemon. "You don't have to stay, Crowley," he said, though in such a way that sounded like he would prefer it if Crowley stayed. Sharing in misery and all that. Crowley could respect that he supposed.

And really, he might as well stay now. If he was going to catch this cold, it was already too late for him to escape it just by leaving the shop. He may as well play caretaker to the miserable angel now.

"Don't have anything better to do," Crowley shrugged, brushing some feathers off the table. "Already done my deed of the day and all. Don't mind hanging around for a bit."

Aziraphale smiled slightly. "Well, that would be very kind of you, Crowley," he said before his face scrunched up and he sneezed again, causing the demon to retreat from the black zone.

The angel growled and shook his wings, before twisting to try and scratch at them. "This is honestly infuriating! I'm so glad angels don't molt more than once every decade!"

"You shouldn't scratch," Crowley scolded. "You'll damage the feathers coming in and make the whole process worse."

Aziraphale made a dismissive sound in the back of his throat. "Then how am I supposed to stand it? It's torture!"

Crowley thought back to his last molt where he had spent most of the time in the shower, the warm water seeming to be the only thing that had kept him from tearing out what feathers he had left.

"Do you have a shower or a bath?" he asked.

"Upstairs, in the apartment, yes," Aziraphale grunted, still scratching. "Why?"

Crowley batted his hand away from his wings, getting an indignant look from Aziraphale and grabbed his elbow. "Come on, I know something that will help."

A few minutes later Aziraphale was sitting on a stool in the bathroom, a skeptical look on his face as Crowley helped him settle his wings into the bathtub. There wasn't enough room for both Aziraphale and Aziraphale's wings, so they had to make do with the angel sitting on a stool with his back against the tub and his wings resting inside. Crowley had rolled up his sleeves and turned on the water, testing the temperature.

"This seems rather unconventional, Crowley," Aziraphale said, blowing his nose, already reaching back to scratch his wings again as he shivered under the towel wrapped around his shoulders.

"Trust me, it helps," Crowley told him. "It will also help to get out all the rest of these loose feathers which will definitely help the itching and get everything under way."

Aziraphale hunched forward, pulling the towel tighter around him. "Very well, if you say so."

"Just because I'm a demon, doesn't mean I can't impart wisdom, you know." The water was at the proper temperature and Crowley turned on the shower head, angling it so the spray fell across Aziraphale's wings. The angel flinched slightly, wings twitching as if he wanted to flap them, before he settled.

"Alright, here we go," Crowley grabbed a bottle of shampoo and put a little on each of the angel's wings. The soap bubbled in the stream of water, and Crowley reached out to start working it into the feathers as Aziraphale arched his back, making small noises of protestation.

"You're just making it worse! The feathers are getting all crooked!" Aziraphale complained before he sneezed and several soapy bubbles exploded off his wings and flew around the room.

"Stop winging!" Crowley chided. "I'm working all the loose feathers out, I'll put the rest of 'em back in order later."

Aziraphale _hmphed_ with mild disbelief but kept silent for the next couple minutes as Crowley worked through the feathers, getting the shampoo down to his skin to keep it moisturized. For as fussy as the angel was, Crowley was surprised Aziraphale didn't make a regular habit of this. What did he usually do when he molted? Sit in silence and suffer? Since Crowley had never caught him at it before in all their millennia as friends, he figured that was probably true.

The shampooing finished, Crowley let the soap wash out of Aziraphale's feathers, watching the wet plumes gather in the bottom of the tub, probably to eventually clog the drain. By now the angel's wings looked rather sad. Wet, sparse, and all the feathers out of place from Crowley's well-meaning ministrations.

"Oh, look at my poor wings, Crowley!" Aziraphale moaned as he turned to look at them, his eyes widening as he glanced into the tub and saw all the feathers.

"Do they still itch, angel?" Crowley demanded, putting his hands on his hips.

"Well… I suppose they don't," Aziraphale admitted with some surprise, shrugging one sopping wing. "Perhaps you were right."

"'Course I was," Crowley said with a smug smile as he turned the water off and grabbed a towel. "Let's just dry these off now, and I'll give them a good preen."

Crowley got most of the water off with the towel and then Aziraphale plumped his feathers and shook off more, water droplets flying everywhere, causing Crowley to yelp as he was sprayed with them.

"Watch it!" he said.

"So sorry," Aziraphale said in a way that was not at all sorry. Crowley raised an eyebrow at the angel then Aziraphale sneezed again and blew his nose loudly.

"I think I could do with some more tea," the angel said.

Crowley urged him to go back down to the study and fixed another pot of tea. By the time he had gotten back to the angel, Aziraphale had bundled himself into a chucky sweater, sitting on the couch as his wings dried and fluffed so as not to look _quite_ as bad as they had when they were wet.

"Come on then, angel," Crowley said resignedly as he put the tray down on the coffee table. "Let me see about putting those feathers back in order."

Aziraphale sighed, sounding a little grumpy, but he shifted his wings over the back of the couch and Crowley stood behind him getting to work.

"When was the last time you did this?" Crowley asked as he started on one of Aziraphale's large flight feathers, seeing all the barbs hopelessly ragged and detached. "These look awful."

"Well, you just scrubbed them to death is why!" Aziraphale retorted, sipping his tea moodily.

"Not these, and they were like that before," Crowley told him.

"Well, some of them are rather hard to reach," Aziraphale said, someone self-consciously.

Crowley raised an eyebrow. He knew that of course, he would never ask another demon to help him preen, after all—that just wasn't done and he'd had to figure out ways to make do, but he had assumed angels had like…communal preening or something. He thought he remembered such things from Heaven. "What about the other angels? They can't help you?"

Aziraphale shifted slightly, looking into his cup of tea. "I've never thought to burden them with such things. And it's silly to go up to Heaven just to ask for help preening—they have more important things to do, after all."

Crowley bit back the anger welling inside of him. He would expect that sort of thing from demons, but angels? Well, then again, it wasn't so far-fetched, he supposed. They weren't exactly the most congenial creatures despite the PR. But still, he had a feeling that up in Heaven angels helped each other all the time with their wings. The way Aziraphale had said 'they have more important things to do' made Crowley think that perhaps he _had_ gone to ask once and been told his problem wasn't important enough for them.

He swallowed hard before he spoke again, pushing the anger out of his voice so Aziraphale wouldn't hear. "Well, ya know…if you ever need help in future, I don't really have any important things to do."

Aziraphale glanced back over his shoulder, a surprised look on his face. "Why, Crowley, that's very kind of you. I hope you'll allow me to return the favor." His face scrunched up then and he sneezed again. Crowley closed his eyes in resignation.

"Not until you feel better," he muttered.

He continued with Aziraphale's flight feathers then moved to the rest, putting them back in order, and taking a look at the new feathers coming in. He was careful around the blood feathers, knowing how sensitive they were, but made sure none of them had gotten damaged or irritated from Aziraphale's scratching. They all looked good though and Crowley concluded the preening, only to realize Aziraphale was nodding off.

He dodged around the other side of the couch, rescuing the teacup still in Aziraphale's hand, and setting it aside.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I must have…dozed off…" Aziraphale mumbled as he sank lower into the cushions with a yawn.

"You probably should rest, angel," Crowley told him. "It will help you recover."

Aziraphale made a small sound in protestation but apparently his body wasn't listening to him because his eyes slid shut again and he tucked his wings against his back, and curled up under them.

Crowley watched a couple minutes before he pulled a blanket off the back of the couch and draped it over the angel.

He then stepped back, unsure of what to do. He could probably go back to his flat and leave Aziraphale to sleep. Although, there were still an awful lot of feathers floating around, and Crowley thought that maybe he could help the angel clean them up.

There was also a still steaming pot of tea on the table.

Crowley sighed and grabbed a cup for himself, resigned. Perhaps he could stay for a little bit longer after all.


End file.
